


Airplanes

by elena0206



Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Derogatory Language, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Podfic Welcome, References to Drugs, Slow Build, Slow Burn, SpacedogsSummer, Teen Angst, Teen!Adam, Teen!Nigel, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-07-22 03:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7418521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elena0206/pseuds/elena0206
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Nigel is troublesome. Young Adam is troubled. They see the same therapist.</p><p> <i>A pregnant pause stretches between the two of them for a few brief moments. Nigel’s mouth falls agape in speechless and quizzical confusion.</i></p><p>  <i>“What the…” he mutters out, too perplexed to rejoice the achievement of finally having made the boy talk.</i><br/> <br/><i>Your aspect ratio is completely wrong,” the other adds flatly, voice unfluctuating. If anything, he’s slightly irked that he has to say it out loud when it’s already so obvious. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tea_Stain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_Stain/gifts).



> Based on [Tea_Spill](https://twitter.com/Tea_Spill)'s idea and alternatively named "Therapy my Ass-perger's" :D I expect two or three more chapters to follow.
> 
> Special thanks to Z for beta-reading this and brainstorming with me.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥

* * *

What do they know about justice anyway? _What do they fucking know?_ They've never had to fight tooth and claw to get it; it’s always been given to them. They don’t know what it’s like to be left all bruised up, bloody-knuckled, and shaking, with no one to tend to your wounds and no one to care enough to ask you how you’ve gotten them.  They just sit on their asses and give their verdicts in words he doesn't fully understand. _Fuck that. Fuck all of ‘em._ They know nothing about what real life is like, and the things you have to do just to keep yourself afloat, let alone swim to a shore. But Nigel knows. He knows. And for all it's worth, he knows that seeing a therapist, cooperating, and playing their tricks is better than going to juvy.

Nigel is seventeen now. He has ash blonde hair, calloused hands, tobacco stains on his shirt, and more issues than Vogue. But more importantly, Nigel has his freedom. He won’t let those assholes take it away from him.

* * *

The few colorful magazines spread on a coffee table are the only form of entertainment available. Nigel picks one up randomly and starts flipping through its pages, too quickly to be able to read anything. It doesn't matter because he's not interested in _10 Money-Saving Ways To Make Your Living Room Look More Expensive_ anyway. _Not one fucking bit._

He's sitting alone in the waiting room. He's been told to wait there, just not how much. Half an hour passes and that's too fucking much. Nigel throws the magazine aside and starts pacing around the room. He's growing impatient quickly, and the waiting is starting to feel suffocating. The size of the room doesn't help either. He already browsed through all the magazines, looked at all the paintings, read all the posters, and even the certificates and diplomas ostentatiously displayed in the middle of the wall.

The only thing left to do now is leave. Leave and never come back here. It's fucking stupid anyway, and he knows they won't do shit to help him. Nobody has ever moved a finger to help him, and Nigel doesn't see why they would start now, particularly after being caught with drugs on him. He knows this is some sort of punishment, and not a helping hand as they claim it to be. What he doesn't know is exactly how the sessions will go, and what methods of torment they will implement. Making him wait in this fucking cage seems like a good start. _Bastards._

If he wasn’t sure before, the sound of footsteps approaching from the adjacent room, together with the sense of foreboding it brings, make Nigel decide he does indeed want to leave. His plan is infallible, and he’s already considering ways he could spend the few hours he would have at his disposal until someone could figure out he’s missing. Nigel manages to take one single cocksure step towards the front door, when another door opens behind him and he stops abruptly. _Fucking busted._ He didn't make up his mind quickly enough, and now he'll have to sit here for god-fucking-knows how long, listening to some dickhead shrink’s mumbo jumbo.

When he swings about, ready to face a storm of meddling questions from his new therapist, all he sees is a slim young boy. He has bright blue eyes and a great flock of brown hair adorning the top of his head, falling in ungraceful curls over his forehead.

"Oh," Nigel lets out, bewildered by the unexpected situation, not relieved nor disappointed.

The boy doesn’t notice him, although they're only steps away, or at least he doesn't acknowledge Nigel’s presence. He travels the distance to a chair with small and careful steps, as if the floor is spinning under his feet, and lowers himself with equally slow and cautious movements. By some sort of unspoken mutual agreement, Nigel finds himself returning to his seat as well. He sprawls his legs over the coffee table and glares at the other, expecting to see him throwing judgmental looks at Nigel’s insolence. He doesn’t. His attention is fixed on the wall opposite of them as if it’s the most interesting sight in the whole fucking world, and there’s no discernable expression on his face.

 _Well, isn't that nice?_ For once in his life, all eyes in the room aren’t on Nigel. There's nobody nagging him, going on a tirade of lame questions, or telling him what he’s allowed to do and what he’s not. Just this random kid who doesn’t seem to give a shit about Nigel. _Why the fuck doesn’t he?_ Not even his peers or those younger than him treat him with this utter lack of interest.

Without giving it too much thought, Nigel grabs a nearby magazine and starts ripping off the pages one by one. He goes on crumpling the paper into small balls, while making sure to throw sidelong glances at the boy from time to time. When he finishes making the balls, he picks one, closes an eye, and balances his arm in the air for a few moments before aiming for the bin in the corner of the room and throwing it.

The ball hits the bin with precision, and bounces off inside. Nigel jumps from his seat, and claps his hands loudly, celebrating his success. His wide smile falls when he turns around to find the boy still not giving him any attention.

_What the fuck._

Nigel carries on with his little game, changing the distance and position from which he throws the ball, and showing off his accuracy and skills, but to no avail. The impassive expression on the other’s face persists and Nigel is getting tired of it. This kid is no fun.

Once again, he has his legs extended on the coffee table and he’s sitting in his chair, trying to figure out new ways of passing the time. He takes another magazine, but instead of carelessly ripping the pages off, this time he removes them with prudence from the middle so that they stay intact. After he manages to remove a satisfying enough double-page, he folds a clunky airplane out of it and throws it in the room. The paper airplane goes upwards for a moment, makes a small loop, and falls straight down, to Nigel’s resentment. He’s never been good at making paper airplanes, just at throwing them.

“You have to give them an aerodynamic shape if you want them to fly properly.”

The comment comes unexpectedly, and Nigel realizes he’s forgotten there was someone else in the room with him. The boy is staring at the airplane lying on the floor and talking quickly.

“Paper airplanes usually have short stubby wings, called low aspect ratio wings. The distance from wing tip to wing tip is called wing span, and the distance from the front to the back of the wing is called the chord. The ratio of wing span to average chord is called aspect ratio, and is an important characteristic of wings.”

A pregnant pause stretches between the two of them for a few brief moments. Nigel’s mouth falls agape in speechless and quizzical confusion.

“What the…” he mutters out, too perplexed to rejoice the achievement of finally having made the boy talk.

“Your aspect ratio is completely wrong,” the other adds flatly, voice unfluctuating. If anything, he’s slightly irked that he has to say it out loud when it’s already _so_ obvious.

There’s a certain assuredness to him – not in the way he speaks, but in the way he delivers information, detached from zeal, but not without passion – that doesn’t allow Nigel to question the accuracy of his words. He couldn’t if he tried. The kid, with his slender limbs, narrow shoulders, and wary voice, simply couldn’t come off as liable to be wrong.

Nigel feels a sense of something akin to respect building up in his chest.

“Go ahead then,” he says, with curiosity more than condescension, and slides the magazine towards the other’s direction. “Make one.”

Dumbfounded, Nigel watches as the boy spreads a double-page on the coffee table with exaggerated meticulousness and starts folding the airplane, slowly and deliberately.

“The secrets to making paper airplanes fly well are largely the same adjustments which make hand-launched gliders fly well. Most people have the incorrect idea that a good paper airplane needs no adjustments after the basic folds are finished,” the boy says while his fingers are rigorously working the sheet of paper. He stops only once to push curls of hair away from his forehead.

“All real airplanes have trim tabs to make small adjustments to the plane, and all paper airplanes need small adjustments to fly their best,” he goes on explaining, and Nigel thinks there’s a momentary flicker of enthusiasm in his voice. “There are a few basic adjustments and principles which differentiate between the paper airplane novice and the paper airplane expert.”

“Well?” Nigel urges the kid to continue, now genuinely interested to find out more about fucking paper airplanes.

“One of the most common paper airplane mistakes is to leave the wings folded down at an angle, like you did. That is called anhedral, and it reduces the lateral stability of your paper airplane.”

Nigel stares at the airplane he made and then at the other’s, noting the obvious differences in shape and structure. He nods.

“What you want is called dihedral, which is when the wing tips are the highest part of the wing.”

He stops to exemplify on his airplane and Nigel nods again, rubbing his forehead.

“The resulting lateral stability will help keep your paper airplane flying straight or perhaps in a gradual turn. With lateral instability your paper airplane will either roll over on its back and crash – just as yours did – or enter into an ever tightening spiral which becomes a spiraling dive. Just remember to keep your wing tips up.”

And with this, he finishes and presents the airplane to Nigel. The latter takes it for a closer look.

“Not bad. Not bad at all,” he acknowledges after inspecting the beautifully-crafted airplane for a minute, turning it on all sides, and scrutinizing each fold and plication. When he prepares to throw it, the boy stops him.

“Wait! The trick is to get the paper airplane gliding from as high as possible. For maximum height and for a good transition to gliding flight, the throw must be within 10 degrees of vertical.”

Nigel stares at him, his face frozen in a helpless, puzzled expression.

“Can you…” he begins, but is unsure how to finish, gesticulating towards his own raised arm.

“Oh! Oh, yes. Sure.”

The younger boy lets out a short and nervous chuckle, then proceeds to position Nigel’s arm into the correct position. Once he’s done, Nigel throws the airplane, and they both watch it plunge gracefully through the air and land with ease on the floor at the distant end of the room.

Nigel cheers noisily, jumps slightly from where he’s standing, and grabs the other by his shoulders. Before Nigel realizes that what he’s doing could bother him, the boy freezes in Nigel’s grasp, and the rigid grimace adjust onto his face once again.

He retracts his hands promptly when he notices the intrusive touch is upsetting the other. “ _Shit._ Shit, I’m sorry.”

The kid is ignoring Nigel’s presence again, blocking him out completely. He sits down on his chair, hands folded on his lap, fumbling frantically and pulling at the hem of his beige sweater.

Nigel sighs loudly, and throws himself down in his own chair. “Are you…” he tries, but stops. _Fuck this shit._ He is loath to go on, and all words seem to stop in his throat.

“Are you okay?” he asks again tentatively, after he fails to shake off the feeling of guilt that’s creeping up in his mind.

No answer comes, and now Nigel feels foolish for having asked in the first place. The silence becomes unbearable. Each second passes slower than the previous one. His left leg starts bouncing up and down uncontrollably. He scratches the wooden armrests of the chair with his fingernails, and considers getting up and leaving when the boy speaks again.

“I’ll show you how to make one.”

The low growl of muffled rage from Nigel’s mind is assuaged almost instantly. For the first time, the boy looks at him, and they make eye contact for a fleeting moment. It’s only now that Nigel notices just how utterly lovely the other’s eyes are. Before he gets a chance to lose himself in the wondrous sight that his companion is, he’s snapped out of it when the office door opens.

A middle-aged man in a brown suit, wearing a hat and holding a briefcase in his hand walks through, followed by an elegant older woman. She must be the shrink, Nigel reckons, judging by her measured movements and the faint stiffness in her voice when she addresses the boy, announcing that he and his father can leave now.

Nigel raises his hand to wave goodbye, but shortly it falls flat on his thigh. He watches the two leave side by side, the man turning to thank the woman one last time, bidding her goodbye as the boy walks away with small and dragging steps. They're about to pass through the exit door when he turns his head, and offers a little crooked smile.

Nigel isn’t sure it if it is directed at him, but he makes sure to return the gesture.

"You must be Nigel," the woman says, making Nigel jump slightly like he's forgotten she was there.

Nigel nods affirmatively, staring at her. She's much older than he hoped she'd be, but pleasing to look at nonetheless. She extends her hand, offering to shake his, but Nigel doesn’t reciprocate the gesture, leaving her no choice other than to retract her hand from the space between them.

“I’m Doctor Felicia Grace, and I will be your therapist,” she announces, more ceremonially than the situation demands.

She enters her office and gestures Nigel to follow. Nigel does so, admittedly without too much enthusiasm. He just wants it to be over as quickly as possible. He takes the offered seat and wonders if the boy sat on the same armchair as he’s sitting now.

“What’s his name?” Nigel finds himself asking out loud as he distractingly watches Dr. Grace fetch some papers from her desk.

“Whose name?” she questions after observing Nigel for a lengthy moment.

Nigel gestures with his head towards the door leading to the waiting room. “That kid’s,” he clarifies.

Dr. Grace’s face brightens up with a smile. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“Will he come back here?”

“Oh, yes. He will.”

“When?”

“I can’t tell you that either.”

A string of swear words slips past Nigel’s lips, and he’s grateful Dr. Grace chooses to pretend she didn’t hear them. She proceeds as Nigel expected her to, with overly formal politeness and rigid interest in his personal life, past, future, and all the other senseless bullshit that bores Nigel to death.

After a dull and tedious hour, Nigel is finally free to go. A familiar face greets him in the waiting room, just not any of the ones he would have liked to see. The social worker in charge of Nigel takes a few minutes to talk to his therapist in private, during which Nigel tries – and fails – to craft the perfect paper airplane.


	2. Chapter 2

The second week finds Nigel atypically eager to return. To his disappointment, the waiting room is empty and Dr. Grace invites him in right away. This vexes him for strange reasons he can’t fully explain. The session is just as dreary as the previous one. On several occasions, Nigel has to bite his tongue as to not let out another thread of profanities. Not out of respect or courtesy, but to spare himself the trouble of having to listen to the customary rhetoric about how there are other words he can use to convey the intensity of his feelings and moods. As if he doesn’t fucking know that already.

More than once, he fails.

It seems longer than an hour and a half, but eventually it comes to an end. Nigel doesn’t feel any better. He feels pissed off, the only somewhat positive part being that he found out he’s here because of his anger management issues and general inadequate behavior. _Well, though luck._ Nigel thinks his behavior is adequate for the lifestyle he’s chosen to lead, and it won’t change anytime soon.

The waiting room is still empty, save for a young woman with dark hair and a placid look on her face. Nigel regards her for a moment. Does she have anger issues too? Inadequate behavior? Or is she a total looney?

_Who the fuck cares?_

She doesn’t count. Nigel doesn’t know why she doesn’t count.

There’s nobody waiting for him this week; the social workers did their perfunctory duty to accompany him once, and now he’s on his own again. That wouldn’t normally be a problem – on the contrary, Nigel treasures the few moments he can find away from their preachy eyes – but today he feels anything but fucking normal. He’s not sure what has gotten into him, but it must have to do with the hours wasted on that fucking armchair, listening to dopey ramblings.

The weather is wintry these days, and Nigel is underdressed in his black t-shirt, thin leather jacket, and ripped jeans. They’re all from charity and donations. He can’t remember the last time he had something that was entirely his.

A slight dull headache starts bothering him when he steps out in the chilly air and damp wind.  Maybe he’s coming down with a cold.

_Maybe._

At this hour, the streets are empty in this part of town. Nigel takes a bent cigarette and a lighter out of his pocket. He stops at a gray and dirty alleyway – a shelter from the wind – to light his cigarette and take a long drag. The smoke rolls down to his lungs, and when it comes back up, Nigel feels nauseated. Regardless, he continues smoking, basking in the quiet vacancy of the streets. He doesn’t stop until the filter starts burning, and then he throws it on the ground, and stubs it out with his heel. It was the last cigarette Nigel had. He spits on the ground, trying to get rid of the bitter taste of cheap tobacco from his mouth, and walks away.

That night, tucked at the top of his shared bunk bed, Nigel dreams of airplanes and bright-eyed boys.

* * *

When the third week rolls by, it finds Nigel in a sour mood. His day hasn’t been going well at all and the weekly scheduled appointment with his therapist only accentuates the sense of exasperation that is wrapping him up and not letting him go. Nothing is going quite right for Nigel. It’s not fair that he has to go through this when all he did was try to survive as best as he knew how to. But life isn’t fair, and that’s a fact Nigel is well aware of.

The waiting room with all its chairs, magazines, and paintings is now starting to become familiar to Nigel. Today he also gets a good look at Dr. Grace’s office. Noticing that Nigel is carefully observing her office, she mentions something completely uninteresting about redecorating. Nigel takes the opportunity to joke that only a wrecking ball could put this pathetic office out of its fucking misery. “All in good fun,” he adds when Dr. Grace’s lips press against each other until they’re reduced to a thin line and her eyes narrow. The rest of the session goes on as the previous two – a pattern of going back and forth over the same few topics that Nigel couldn’t care less about.

Eager to get out of there as soon as possible, Nigel stumbles out through the office door and into the waiting room as soon as Dr. Grace lets him know they are finished for today. There he seems _him_. The same young boy with curly hair, rosy lips, and shaking hands. A face he’s yet to put a name on.

Nigel smirks as he approaches him. He takes large steps on the blue carpet and suddenly the whole room around him is reduced to nothing more than a blurry background. The boy looks up to him from where he’s sitting, and a smile momentarily tugs at the corner of his lips, before his expression returns to its previous neutral state.

“I have something to show you,” he announces, without greeting Nigel or waiting for him to say something.

Nigel raises his eyebrows in surprise, uncertainty, and curiosity – all mixed together in a ball of unclear emotions, together with something else, and sealed with a short chuckle.

“Yeah?”

The kid gestures towards a chair, and Nigel obeys mindlessly, sitting down next to him. He has a heavy book with plain black covers on his knees. It looks gigantic in the boy’s dainty, delicate hands, but from the way he handles it, Nigel figures he’s well accustomed to each ridge and line and angle of the book.

“It’s an index of the most significant astronomical objects known to man,” he explains, but his words fall flat when met with Nigel’s baffled expression.

A pause.

He’s looking down now, watching his own shoes, his eye scanning continuously over the same small perimeter. He has the same strained look on his face as someone who would be doing mental calculations. Except nothing of that sort is going on, and Nigel isn’t sure what to do. The automatic air freshener puffs. In a few seconds, the floral smell with its bitter intensity reaches Nigel.

He clears his throat, but the boy starts talking before he gets a chance to.

“I just thought…”

He’s fumbling his hands again as if an assiduous physical effort is needed for him to find his words. Nigel watches him quietly, without moving a muscle lest he scare him into silence again.

“I just thought you might enjoy it,” the boy picks up and finishes his sentence.

“Oh. The book, you mean?”

He nods. Nigel nods too. They’re not looking at each other.

“Well, that’s nice of you,” Nigel says while scratching the back of his head.

_What the fuck is going on?_

The boy promptly opens the book, flips through its pages for a short while, and stops. He points somewhere on the two-column page filled with tiny black font with his index finger, and Nigel has to lean it to be able to read it. There’s a string of letters and digits that still makes no sense to Nigel, even from up-close.

“SN 2008D,” the boys says with sobriety, as one would when taking an oath, mindful of each and every word. “It is located in the NGC 2770 galaxy. It was the first supernova to be observed while it exploded.”

From where he is hunched over the book, Nigel’s face is at the same level as the other’s. He looks at him, and the boy looks at the book. There’s a trembling sparkle in his eyes, and Nigel wonders how the fuck can anyone be emotional while staring at a chunk of black text on white paper – just random letter and number, and not even one fucking picture.

“Name?” Nigel inquires, straightening his back.

“SN 2008D.”

“What?”

“SN-“

“ _Your_ name.”

“My name?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Oh! It’s Adam. Adam Raki.”

Nigel sighs. _Finally._

“Good to meet you, Adam. I’m Nigel.”

Nigel is grinning again, but Adam merely acknowledges this by bobbing his head up and down shortly. He flips a few more pages.

“What’s this?” Nigel asks, pointing at a random name on one of the pages. He might as well get involved since Adam has no intention of letting him go.

“That’s R136a1,” Adam explains immediately, glad to be able to satisfy Nigel’s curiosity. “It has the highest mass and luminosity of any known star.”

“Ah... The highest...” Nigel’s voice trails off. He’s not sure how to continue, so he asks Adam about another one. Adam delivers the required information right away.

It goes on for a few minutes. Nigel points at random names on random pages, and Adam always has something to say about them, treating the matter with utmost seriousness.

There is a moment when Nigel dips his hand down over the book to flip a page himself and Adam tries to do the same thing, at the same time. Nigel’s hand ends up over Adam’s for a short second, and they both retract themselves as if touching each other’s skin burns. A blush rushes to Adam’s cheeks, and the more Nigel stares at it, the faster his heart starts beating.

“Adam ?” Dr. Grace’s voice reaches them, saving them more than interrupting. “You can come in now.”

Adam hesitates for a few seconds. He closes the book slowly and runs his palm over the front cover with deliberate gentleness. There’s a texture to it, pleasant for Adam to feel under the slight pressure of his skin, with miniscule granules sealed onto the book’s surface.

“You should go,” Nigel encourages.

Adam stops and says nothing.

“Adam, please come here,” Dr. Grace insists from the doorframe of her office, but Adam ignores her again.

“When can I… see you again?” he addresses Nigel, although he doesn’t look at him now.

The latter stares at him, his eyes sliding from Adam’s lips to his right eye to his left eye, and then back to his lips again. He swallows.

“I’ll be here next week,” Nigel finally says with conviction, entirely genuine and unaffected by secondary purposes other than simply seeing Adam again.

A moment passes and they exchange timid, trembling smiles, full of doubt and wonder.

Adam takes his book, and gets up without saying another word, carrying it under his arm to Dr. Grace’s office. She gives Nigel a look he can’t quite decipher before closing the door.

There’s a serene little smile on Nigel’s face that accompanies him all the way home. _No big deal. Just a fucking weird kid_ , he tells himself when the name singing in his ears demands to be heard.

_Adam_. Destined to be a first.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aand we're back! :) 
> 
> Special thanks to the lovely [@SveaShan](https://twitter.com/SveaShan) for helping me out with this chapter! You're the best. ♥ 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 “ _Assper_ —what?”

It’s a word he hears for the first time in his life, and it slips clumsily off Nigel’s tongue as he tries to pronounce it.

 “Asperger’s. It is a developmental disorder.”

Adam is avoiding Nigel’s eyes, which is something the latter has gotten used to. Or should have. Their knees are touching, and it’s Nigel’s doing by his leg extending far more than necessary rather than a simple coincidence.

“Are you, like… sick or something?”

Adam wards off Nigel’s last words with a bob of his head as if they were pesky flies buzzing around him. He doesn’t want to answer that question. He’s not _sick_ ; that’s not what a developmental disorder means, and Nigel should have known that. Adam is upset that the way he is needs a diagnosis. That the way he’s always been is not the way he _should have_ been. But just like Nigel and the many facts he’s yet to learn, _what is_ and _what should be_ are different realities that can only find their place in this universe one at a time. Nigel is pleasant the way he is, without extensive knowledge, without refined manners, without a deep understanding of what Adam is going through. Perhaps one day Adam can be enough on his own too.

“Can I touch you?”

This time Nigel’s question doesn’t carry the same assertive air of skepticism as the previous one. It makes Adam’s eyes dart from the spot they’re fixed on the floor to a slightly higher spot on the coffee table.

“Yes.” Adam’s answer is hushed and shaky, as if he’s voicing a secret. “I think I would like that.”

Nigel’s hand suddenly feels heavy and immovable. It requires effort – once when he lifts it off the arm rest, and then again when he places it on Adam’s knee with more gentleness than he knew he could ever be capable of.

“Don’t worry,” Nigel says, his voice schooled to sound as comforting as possible. “You’ll be cured one day.”

“There is no cure. It’s not a disease,” Adam replies flatly. In truth, he doesn’t know much about this topic either, but he know that it’s not something you can cure like the flu or fix like a broken bone. “I was born this way.”

Adam goes silent again, and so does Nigel. His hand is so gentle, so careful, so protective it is almost hovering over Adam’s knee. The fabric of Adam’s trousers alone is sending little shivers through Nigel’s hand and up his arm. It’s warm and real and attainable.

“I was born with an extra toe on my left foot.” Never did Nigel imagine he would find himself saying this out loud. “But it doesn’t matter to anyone else. The doctors could remove it, but what’s the point? It’s not half bad.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. He isn’t sure where he is going with this anymore. “What I’m trying to say is...”

Nigel hesitates for a second, but then he grabs Adam’s hand softly. He starts rubbing comforting circles with his thumb over Adam’s skin. The other boy squirms in his seat at first, but doesn’t tell or show Nigel that he wants him to stop.

“Whether you have Aspergillus or not—“

“Asperger’s.”

“Asperger’s.” Nigel smiles to himself, and takes a second to bask in the glory of having pronounced it correctly for once. “Whether you have Asperger’s or not, it shouldn’t matter to anyone but you.” He shrugs, contemplating a thought before saying it aloud – just to be sure he means it. “It sure as shooting doesn’t matter to me.”

A beat passes between the two of them. Nigel almost holds his breath until Adam starts talking.

“Do you always go around telling people about your extra toe?”

It isn’t until Nigel hears Adam’s impish little giggle that he realized the other is joking. He cackles, throwing his head back, but does not let go of Adam’s hand, nor does he grip it any tighter.

He raises an index finger and presses it lightly on his lips. “No,” Nigel says in a secretive whisper. “But I trust you with this.”

Adam doesn’t say anything. He looks at Nigel and sees that his eyes are wrinkled with mirth and wet from laugher. They reflect light in a way that reminds Adam of the shiny tremble of stars as seen through Earth’s atmosphere. The stars are distant and intangible, but Nigel is here. He’s close, and he’s holding Adam’s hand in his own.

“My father will be late today and I have to wait here for the next hour.”

If Nigel didn’t know better, he would say it sounds like an invitation to spend this hour together.

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

Now it _is_ an invitation.

“I’m… not sure.”

“Well,” Nigel says, and he looks outside the window. “We can go outside for a minute and you’ll decide then.”

Adam rises from his seat swiftly and his arm tugs Nigel’s. He would let go, but this time it is Adam who’s holding the other’s hand. Instead, he gets up as well and they both walk outside.

The weather is still cold and Nigel is still underdressed, but now he has Adam with him. They stand still on the sidewalk for a minute. Adam is watching the sky, and Nigel is watching Adam. He looks like one of those old paintings, with his curly hair bouncing playfully in the wind, smooth skin, bright eyes, and the most perfect of lips.

“There’s a library nearby. Do you wanna go there?”

Adam’s face lights up upon hearing Nigel’s suggestion.

“I would like that very much.”

Nigel is beaming with delight. His heart is beating faster than before, and faster still when Adam takes his hand again.

“Wait,” Adam says after they both start walking. He has a frown on his face, and a little ridge is forming between his eyebrows. “Don’t you have an appointment now?”

Nigel laughs. “This is more therapeutic than any therapy session,” he says, and then keeps on laughing until Adam joins him.

Neither of them really knows why they’re laughing, but neither of them cares enough to stop. Among the 7 billion human lives on Earth, two are now taking a turn for the better.

* * *

The book slips from Nigel’s arms and lands on the floor with a loud thud. The sound reverberates painfully and disrupts the perfect silence of the lecture room. Adam shushes him before the librarian does too, and Nigel lifts both hands in the air, apologizing. He bends down to recover the fallen book, and places it on the table between him and Adam, this time with much more care.

“What are you reading?” he asks, hunching over to see Adam’s book.

“ _Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica_ by Sir Isaac Newton,” Adam replies, almost mechanically, without taking his eyes off this book.

Nigel immediately decides not to ask any further questions. He opens his own book and takes a long look at the index page. He can’t remember the last time he read a book, or if he ever finished one from cover to cover.

“What is that?” Adam asks, now openly staring at Nigel.

His lips are slightly parted and his eyebrows raised in a curious little expression that Nigel quickly chooses to love. He shows Adam the book cover instead of answering.

“ _Different Like Me?_ What is this, Nigel?”

“It’s about a boy with Asperger's syndrome,” Nigel explains. “And famous people who are… like you.”

Adam’s eyes are wide, and he seems as interested as Nigel had hoped he would be when he chose this book.

“That’s Sir Isaac Newton,” Adam points out, placing a single finger on the book’s cover. “Did he have Asperger's too?”

Nigel shrugs. “Don’t know. But we can find out.”

He gets up, circles the table, and moves a chair close to Adam. By the time Nigel sits down, Adam is already engrossed in lecture.

Seconds pass, and then become minutes. Blink after blink, the image of Adam reading is painting itself in Nigel’s mind – bright and colorful and almost as beautiful as the real Adam is.

“Are you staring at me?”

For a moment, Adam’s voice feels distant, as if being shouted from across the room. And then it’s strikingly close, and Nigel can feel a rush of blood travelling to his face as he swallows.

“No,” he blurts out at first, and then, “Yes. Maybe?”

He frowns at his own cluelessness and swears – only in his mind. Never out loud next to Adam. It’s a rule he refuses to question because then he’d have to question the avidity with which he obeys this rule as well. And the reasons why this rule is simple and natural and right, while the others are not.

“Why?”

Adam’s question pulls Nigel off the derailed train of thoughts he is on.

“Umm…”

 _God fucking damn it._ It shouldn’t be as difficult as it is.

“Remember that thing you told me about last week? What was it called? Zero’s effect?”

“Zeno,” Adam replies immediately. “The quantum Zeno effect.”

“Well, what if I look away and you disappear?” Nigel tugs at the lobe on his ear, scratching it lightly. “Isn’t that how it works?”

Adam looks downright confused. He seems to space out for a second before returning to the present.

“No, not exactly. It is a situation in which continuous observation and measurement can stop an unstable particle from decaying. But you’re not observing me microscopically and–” He stops abruptly and glances at the other. “Where even would I go, Nigel?”

Nigel laughs and snorts as he does so. “I dunno. The land where pretty boys with dazzling minds come from.”

He can see the way his words sink in as Adam’s face takes a dark shade of pink.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

Nigel nods instead of answering. He’s never been good at making compliments and voicing out his feelings, more so now when they’re strong enough to actually overwhelm him. But Adam’s expression doesn’t change one bit, and he realizes he has to say it out loud.

 “I, uh, think so.”

_Fuck._

“Think that you’re, um, yeah.”

_Fuck. Fuck._

“Pretty. Yes.”

Adam flashes a smile, and Nigel lets out a sigh of relief, although he has the feeling Adam is not done yet.

“I think you are pretty too,” he says, so matter-of-factly, like all the other things he’s been telling Nigel about. Disinterested in sounding like something it is not.

“Pretty” has never crossed Nigel’s mind as something he could be described as. Not even close to it. And yet, this kid – _this goddamn kid_ – did just that. Told Nigel he thinks he’s pretty, and did it before immediately returning to the book he’s reading. In a way, it bothers Nigel that it’s not as much of a big deal for Adam as it is for him. Adam made it sound like he complimented someone’s curtains and then moved on with his life, while Nigel made a real effort to say those few words to him. He doesn’t  know why he wants Adam to appreciate this effort, but he truly wants it.

“Really?”

Nigel immediately regrets asking this. He hates the way it sounds – desperate and needy and insecure.

“Yes,” answers Adam, looking mildly irritated that he can’t focus on reading. “I don’t like lies.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you’re—” Nigel scratches the back of his head and his voice trails off into silence. It feels absurd and irrational to him now, to even question the authenticity of Adam’s compliment and how much it means to him in the first place. If there’s anything he realizes, it’s that Adam is more than he seems to be, but never less.

“How old are you?” Nigel asks once he finds himself curious to see the _more_ that Adam is.

“Fifteen.”

Nigel nods. “I’m seventeen,” he informs Adam when the latter doesn’t ask him anything back. “Are you going to school?”

“No,” he replies, and fidgets in his seat. “Well, yes. But I’m homeschooled. So I’m not technically _going_. I’ve tried public high schools several times, but—”

His narrow shoulders rise and fall quickly and his lips twitch into what looks like a wince more than a smile to Nigel.

“I’ve been to a few schools too.” He snickers and places his palm flat on the table. “But my reasons are probably different than yours.”

Adam simply takes the information in and returns to reading. He’s clearly too interested in the book Nigel picked to engage in conversations with him right now. He should have known what to expect when he wished Adam would be interested in this particular book.

Nigel relents. He leans in closer to Adam, and Adam takes his right hand off the book so Nigel can read too. He’s just staring at the page for a while, unable to process the meaning behind the strings of letters, smiling to himself that this – reading a book together – is _their thing_ now.

* * *

 “Thank you,” Adam says when they’re outside of the library and slowly walking next to each other. “It was interesting.”

Adam’s words are flat and toneless, but after everything they’ve read together, Nigel knows that it’s better to trust Adam’s words more than the way he says them. Adam is honest, genuine, and uncensored, which only makes it easier for Nigel to enjoy his presence.

“You’re welcome.”

It is getting darker now, with shades of red turning into dark purples. Cars have their headlights on. The reds and greens of the traffic lights are shining spots of color against the dull, gray background of the city. The wind has stopped, but the air is still cold and crisp and numbing. There’s a police siren wailing somewhere down the street.  

“It’s late,” Adam remarks. The loveliest shade of dark pink is creeping up on his cheeks, nose, and ears, and Nigel can’t help but stare at it.

Nigel nods in agreement. “The office must be closed by now.”

All of a sudden, a wave of _something_ is washing over Adam and clouding his face. Neither he nor Nigel can pinpoint what it is, but it’s there, and it’s making Nigel feel uneasy as well. The street is suddenly too dark, the city too empty, and Nigel’s pockets too small for his clenching fists.

“I want to go home,” says Adam in a strangled voice that makes a whirlpool of heat and cold and panic surge at the back of Nigel’s head.

It’s late. They’re late. They got carried away at the library and forgot. Adam’s father was supposed to pick him up from the office. Now it’s late, their pace is increasing, their breaths are becoming shorter, and the streets keep stretching and unwinding in front of them.  A step breaks into two. A block has five corners instead of four. A crosswalk appears where there was none.

The police siren is now farther away and they can hear it dying out in the distance.

It’s late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Adam's book](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/231083.The_Principia)   
>  [Nigel's book](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1241725.Different_Like_Me)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back with an update! Thank you everyone for your patience! :) Now that the winter holidays are (almost) over, I hope I can spend more time working on this, and update it more often. I have two more chapters planned, but depending on where the characters decide to take me, there might be more. 
> 
> I forgot to add links for the books Adam and Nigel were reading in the last chapter so here we go: [Adam's book](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/231083.The_Principia) and [Nigel's book.](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1241725.Different_Like_Me)
> 
> This chapter is gonna be angsty, and although it broke my heart to write it, it had to be done. Also there will be a scene involving food/eating in this chapter. I'm sorry if it bothers anyone.
> 
> As always, thank you [@SveaShan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SveaShan) for beta-reading this and for supporting me! All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Enjoy! ♥

* * *

They don’t talk anymore, although Nigel wishes they would. He wants to assure Adam that everything is going to be okay. He wants to hear himself saying it out loud. He wants Adam to say it too. He wants to believe it – _truly does so_ – but he’s aware of just how badly he’s fucked up. A million different scenarios are running through his head, one more disastrous than the other, leaving him no space to breathe.

A few feet away, Adam’s mind is blank. He’s vaguely aware of Nigel’s presence next to him, but it doesn’t weigh anything. It’s little more than just a shadow following him around. His ears are clogged, his head is heavy, and there is no solid ground under his feet. Everything is blurry, distant, and disorienting, but Adam knows one thing for sure – he has to get home as soon as possible.

It’s dark outside when they reach their destination. There’s a darkness seeping inside of them too – cold and dull, gnawing at their bones. The crippling realization that this might have been their first and last escape together quells the afterglow they should bask in.

Adam lives with his father on the second floor of a modest townhouse. He hurries to enter the building, with Nigel in tow. He can see how Adam’s expression and his whole body become less rigid once he’s back into familiar territory. Nigel can’t help but feel guilty that he took that feeling of safety away from Adam, even if just for a short while.

In front of Adam’s apartment door, they both stop. They stare at the dark wood door with numb tongues and tingling fingertips.  

The first time he tries to speak, Nigel’s voice cracks. He coughs, swallows, and tries again. “I should go now,” he whispers tentatively, unsure himself weather leaving would worsen their situation or not.

There’s a part of Nigel that wants him to turn on his heels and run away. Leave and never come back. Forget Adam, forget therapy, forget the good times they had together. _Fucking forget it all._ It’s not like he hasn’t left people’s lives before – friends, almost friends, precarious beginnings of romances, and the few ones who tried to help Nigel, just not help the way he wanted and needed to be helped. When life gets too much, too fast, too heavy, Nigel leaves. It’s what he wants to do now, what every cell of his being is urging him to do, what feels safe and familiar and easy to him.

There’s another part of Nigel too. One that wants him to stay. One that is tired of running away, of dealing with the same old shit over and over again. One that wants to face this problem now and solve it. Nigel doesn’t know how, but there must be a way. He want to face Adam’s father and tell him his son is safe, that he only tried to do something nice for nice. That he’s actually a good guy, despite all appearances, despite his past, despite dragging Adam after him and disappearing for hours on end without telling anyone.

Adam isn’t making it any easier. He doesn’t tell Nigel if he should go or stay. He doesn’t say anything. He reaches for the golden door knob, turns it once, and then lets go of it.

The door opens with a click. Indistinct chattering comes from inside, and then the sound of hurried footsteps approaching. A man – Adam’s father, undoubtedly—comes in sight. His dark green tie is askew and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows.

Nigel didn’t notice just how tall he was the first time he’d seen him a few weeks ago at Doctor Grace’s office. His mind makes a jump, trying to escape by wondering if Adam would grow up to be as tall as his father, or maybe even taller, but his pounding heart – within his chest, in his neck, under the skin of his temples – reminds him that _something_ is happening. Something terrible, something important. _Maybe it’s not that fucking bad_ , Nigel’s mind tries again. But it requires him to be present anyway, so he is, as well as he can be.

Adam’s hand seeks Nigel’s. It’s a little gesture that brings them both comfort. They don’t notice how accustomed they are to it, and how much it means to them until it’s no longer in their reach. Adam is an inch too far to grab Nigel’s hand. Two, three, and then he can’t touch or see Nigel at all. His fingertips press against the ball of his own hand; there is nothing but cold air where Nigel’s skin should have been.

Time passes in hiccups now: between held breaths and all at once.

His father’s hands are both firmly planted on Adam’s shoulders, guiding him inside. He’s glad to be back at home, but unsure whether his father is happy to see him or not. His breaths become shorter as the urge to yank himself out of the grasp grows greater. They navigate the narrow hallway, and Adam can swear he counts more doors than they have rooms. When they take a turn to the left to enter the living room, Adam is engulfed by an overwhelming amalgam of questions, gasps, crying, hands, eyes, hair, hands in hair, hands on shoulders, hands on back, hands taking his hands. Too many hands. How many? One pair, two pairs. Three pairs. Four, five. His father – one. Aunt Lisa with shiny, golden, cold rings – two. Aunt Michelle with purple nail polish – three. Aunt Sarah with long fingers – four. The fifth is a steady grasp on his left shoulder that’s trying to pull him aside. Adam doesn’t want to be pushed aside. He doesn’t want to be here, where this is happening with no time to wonder why. There’s no time. There’s no air. He closes his eyes. He bites his bottom lip. He kicks and pushes and runs until the door to his room shuts behind his back, and he glides down on the floor, letting out a pained sob.

* * *

Nigel shuffles his feet under the table. Although they’re in Adam’s kitchen, this feels too much like the interrogation Nigel went through just a few weeks earlier. He’s already told the police officer sitting across him everything that happened that evening – how they went outside to take some air, decided to visit the library, and spent time reading without realizing how late it was. The man simply nodded to all of this, always jotting something down on his little notebook.

“I’m going to talk to the other boy now,” he announces as he gets up from his seat, and Nigel quickly does the same, without giving it too much though. “If your stories check out, you’ll be free to go home.”

The man places his large hand on Nigel’s shoulder, and presses hard enough to make Nigel sit down again. “Relax, son,” he adds with a smile that Nigel loathes the second he sees it.

After the police officer leaves, Nigel notices two of the three women he saw earlier standing in the kitchen doorframe now, watching him with that particular look that he hates so much – a mix of condescending disgust and pity. He’s trying to ignore them as he’s doing nothing but waiting. They whisper something to each other after a few long minutes, and then disappear, leaving Nigel all by himself.

The way he’s being treated makes Nigel feel like an animal at the fucking zoo. One that you pity enough to wish it were free, but care too little about to do something for it. They’re telling him to relax, while making it difficult for him to do so. They don’t allow him to leave the apartment, not even the fucking room, they ask questions, they don’t let him see or talk to Adam, they keep him under supervision, but they fucking dare to tell him to relax.

With both elbows pressed on the table, Nigel rests his chin on folded hands, and looks around him. The kitchen is poky and stuffed with clutter that Nigel deems worthless – stickers, magnets, calendars, red paper towels, postcards, wooden roosters, green paper towels, potted plants, white paper towels, decorative knives, maps, antlers, more potted plants, variations of salt and pepper shakers, a porcelain Easter bunny despite the fact that it’s fucking December.

Adam’s father walks in with quick and broad steps, slamming the door behind him, making Nigel jump slightly. He takes the seat opposite of Nigel, but doesn’t look up at him.

Nigel’s back straightens almost involuntarily. He’s now more aware of his posture that he’s been before. He’s not afraid of Adam’s father. _Of course he’s not fucking afraid,_ but he draws his legs and arms closer to the rest of the body because it feels like it’s the right thing to do.

The man lets out a prolonged sigh that only further adds weight to the silence between them. Nigel is not going to talk first, so he’d better hurry the fuck up or Christmas is gonna find them sitting there.

It takes Nigel by surprise when a gurgle comes from his stomach, loud enough for Adam’s father to hear, and rise his eyes to meet Nigel’s.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

Instead of answering, Nigel gives him a vague mix between a nod and a shrug.

The man gets up anyway, and opens the fridge. His face is illuminated by the warm yellow light coming from inside as he’s looking for something, taking various jars and containers in his hands, and holding them at a distance from his eyes so he can read the labels and properly see what’s inside. After a few moments during which Nigel decides he’d love some mac and cheese right now, he produces a large sandwich wrapped in plastic foil, and brings it to Nigel.

“Hope you like turkey,” he says, and pushes the sandwich closer to Nigel, encouraging him to take it with a short gesture of his hand.

Nigel can’t tell if this is some sort of test. “I’m good, thank you,” he says, and tries to make it sound as unaggressive as possible.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The man rubs his forehead with his fingertips, and continues speaking with his hand pressed on his face. “I may not know who you are and what your intentions are yet, but I’m the father of a boy about your age after all. I won’t let you starve here.”

A few seconds pass, and Nigel is unable to find anything to say. He’s never been in a situation like this before, and he has no fucking clue how to react.

“If you don’t like the sandwich, I can fix you something else,” he offers.

“The sandwich’s good,” Nigel finally manages to blurt out. He takes it in his hands, and starts unwrapping the plastic foil. His stomach makes another loud sound as soon he smells the fresh ingredients. Taking the first bite, he’s mindful of how he chews and already wondering what he’s gonna have to give in exchange for this.

Adam’s father gets up again, and start searching for something around the kitchen. When he finds it, Nigel sees it’s a transparent glass ashtray. He places it on the windowsill, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, then stops.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asks.

Nigel has to look around to make sure someone else hasn’t entered the kitchen without him noticing and the question is addressed to them. But there’s nobody else there, and the man is staring at Nigel with the unlit cigarette hanging between his index and middle finger.

“I don’t,” Nigel answers, swallowing a bite slightly too big that makes his esophagus hurt for a brief moment. He doesn’t look up from his sandwich, but he hears the lighter, and soon smells the smoke wafting by.

He smokes in silence until Nigel finishes eating, and then stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray. He travels the short distance between the window and the table in slow and absent-minded steps, then grips the backrest of the chair with both hands, leaning forward towards Nigel.

“The police told me they found drugs on you a while ago,” he began.

To Nigel’s surprise, when he has to face with the reality of Adam’s father finding out about his trouble with the law, what scares him the most is not punishment or prison, but being deprived of Adam’s company, and forced to cut off all contact with him. He discovered in Adam a companionship so rare and fulfilling that he couldn’t bear the thought of going back to being all on his own in such abrupt and premature circumstances.

“And that you are in therapy for your inadequate behavior,” he continued.

Again with that word Nigel fucking despises -- _inadequate._

“Yes, sir.”

The man lets out a faint chuckle, and shakes his head. “No need to call me _sir._ I know you don’t respect me that much. After all, why would you? I’m the guy who called the police on you.”

Nigel makes a face without being aware of it, but Adam’s father sees it.

“I’m David,” he says, extending his hand over the table to shake Nigel’s.

Despite everything Nigel knows to be true about himself, his hand reaches out. He tells himself this is about adapting, about getting out of this situation as well as he can. He’s surprised that the grasp isn’t cold and firm, and that the other lets go of his hand after shaking it almost immediately.

David closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again, and flashes a mirthless smile. “I love my son,” he begins, the fatigue in his voice making it sound low and faint. “I love Adam. He’s everything I have, and I’d give my life for him.”

He starts pacing around the room, and Nigel watches him, waiting for him to finish talking before deciding how to answer and how he feels about him.

“He’s just been diagnosed with Asperger's.”

That, Nigel already knows. In fact, he was the first one to find out, directly from Adam, and he’d like to point that out, but doesn’t.

“That’s a lot to take in,” David continues. “Both for him and for me. There’s research to be done. We have to figure out ways to help Adam, to make his life easier.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Nigel snaps, and regrets doing so the second the question leaves his lips.

David stops dead in his tracks, and regards Nigel before talking again. There’s no anger reading on his face, only infinite exhaustion.

“I’m telling you this because you and Adam decided to disappear for hours,” he says, accentuating the last words. “What if next time you decide to leave town? God knows what could happen then.”

“We won’t,” replies Nigel flatly.

“But can I take your word for it?” He gestures towards Nigel, and approaches him. “Can I trust you with my son’s safety?” He sits down on the chair he was before, and works the tie knot with his finger to loosen it up further. “Put yourself in my shoes, Nigel. Would you trust yourself around someone so dear to you as Adam is to me?”

Nigel bows his head down, and starts fidgeting with the zippers on the side of his trousers. It’s not a difficult question, and he already knows the answer to it. He’s just a fucking loser, he knows that. A delinquent. A failure. An asshole too dangerous for the safety of David Raki’s precious little baby.

“No,” Nigel answers. There’s spite and bitterness tainting his voice.

David nods, just a single short gesture, and rises from his seat again. He lights himself another cigarette, and pulls a second one out of the package, offering it to Nigel.

Nigel shakes his head that no, he doesn’t want it.

“You don't impress me if you refuse it now,” David says, eyes pinned on Nigel. “I know a smoker when I see one. So you could keep pretending, or you could take it. I doubt anybody is gonna offer you another one anytime soon.”

 _Fuck you,_ Nigel says in his head as he accepts the cigarette, and leans over the table for the lighter. He starts smoking, reluctantly, but soon realizes that this is much better than the cheap shit he manages to buy every now and then, and is glad he took it.

“I want you to stay away from Adam,” David confesses while staring out the window at the darkened evening city.

A gust of cold wind comes in, ruffling David’s hair slightly, and making Nigel shudder. Surely it’s the cold air from outside that makes Nigel’s marrow freeze in his bones.

“It’s not a threat,” he continues. “Not yet, at least. This is the request of a father who cares about his son’s well-being.”

Nigel feels his whole face twitching. “Maybe Adam is well when he’s with me. Have you considered that?”

Hearing this, David laughs, more or less in Nigel’s face. He seems amused by the possibility of Nigel being good company for Adam.

The seed of rage always planted in Nigel’s belly sprouts and rises and takes hold of his lungs and heart and brain. He feels like he’s suffocating, like his skin might just crumble any moment now, leaving him naked and raw and aching.

“Making friends has always been difficult for Adam,” David says after his laughter fades. “And you’re trying to tell me that exchanging a few words once a week makes _you_ his friend?”

Nigel doesn’t reply. He can’t reply. His whole mouth is numb and bitter, and he feels dizzy. His fists are clenched, and the effort he has to put into keeping them still under the table makes him unable to focus on anything else.

“You will stop seeing Adam. You will stop talking to Adam. I will arrange with Dr. Grace so that you two have appointments on different days. If I ever see you set foot in this neighborhood, I will call the police again, and I’ll make sure it won’t end well.”

His words feel like needles piercing through Nigel’s chest, and although he can’t quite grasp the magnitude of it all yet, it’s like the whole world is collapsing on him.

“Understood?” David asks, finishing his cigarette.

Nigel realizes his own has burnt out almost untouched, and he throws it away on the floor with nonchalance. _It’s not like it can get any worse than this anyway_ , he tells himself.

David ignores Nigel’s uncivil gesture, and drags a chair closer to him before sitting down.

“Did you understand what I’ve just told you, Nigel?” he asks again, slower this time, and puts both hands on Nigel’s shoulders.

The touch burns through Nigel’s skin and flesh and bones, and it hurts until the very core of his being.

“I’m bad influence for Adam.”

David nods. “Yes, you are. This doesn’t mean you can’t change. But for the time being, I’d like you to stay away from him.”

“Okay,” he says, broken and barely audible.

He gets up, and walks past Adam’s father, out of the kitchen, and heading for the front door. The three women are watching him again, but this time he doesn’t give a shit anymore. When David catches up with him, he stops walking.

“Can I see him one last time?” he asks, his back turned on the other man.

“Just go, Nigel.”

His tone is soft now, almost pleading, as if Nigel’s presence harms not only Adam, but Adam’s father too. He unlocks the door for Nigel, and invites him outside.

The latter obeys, and walks down the hallway without saying another word. He hears the door close only as he’s leaving the building, and realizes David has been watching him to make sure he’s leaving for good.

It’s dark outside, even darker than when he arrived there with Adam, and his feet are slow and heavy. Nigel can’t recall the last time he wanted to return to the group home and go to sleep this badly.

* * *

Adam’s door creaks, making him wake up from where he’s fallen asleep on his bed. The only light in the room is coming from the dozens of phosphorescent stars plastered on the ceiling and walls. Adam squints until he can see that the person walking in is his father.

“Hey,” David says softly, sitting down on the bed next to Adam. “How’re you feeling?”

Adam ignores his question. “Did Nigel leave?” he asks instead.

“He did.”

Adam’s brow furrows. “He didn’t say goodbye.”

He sounds sad as he says it, and David reaches out to stroke his hair before he has the time to even question his decision of forcing Nigel out of Adam’s life.

“You’ll see each other soon enough,” he lies, hoping that it’s enough to pacify Adam for the night.

“Are you upset with me?”

“Of course I’m not upset, dear. I’m happy you’re home safe.” He strokes Adam’s cheek with his palm now, and thinks about how much his son means to him. With that thought in mind, his decision feels like it’s the best decision. “Now let’s go to sleep, okay? It’s been a long day.”

Adam nods in agreement, and rests his head back on the pillow. He falls asleep shortly afterwards, and dreams about everything he’s read with Nigel at the library earlier the same day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. The next chapter is gonna be similarly angsty, but good changes will happen too. :) Feedback is always appreciated, so don't hesitate to leave a comment. Have a lovely day! ♥


	5. Chapter 5

The music volume is slightly too high for Nigel’s liking, and the cheap plastic ear buds pressed deep into his ears are almost painful, but he isn’t willing to take them out so long as Dr. Grace is sitting there and waiting to talk to him.

She came into the bedroom he is sharing with three other boys his age despite Nigel not answering to her knocking on the door, and sat down at the table in the middle of the room. Over half an hour passed, time during which Nigel continued listening to music while lying on his back in bed, and Dr. Grace took a book out from her purse, and started reading.

When Nigel takes a quick look at her, he sees that she’s still reading, and doing a seemingly better job than him at pretending the other isn’t there. He also sees her lips moving, but can’t hear what she’s saying, so he takes one ear bud out, and props himself up on an elbow.

“I said this stuff goes right over my head,” she repeats, and closes the book. “One of my patients recommended it,” she adds with a smile, showing Nigel the book cover.

Nigel only manages to read the title – _The Fabric of the Cosmos_ – before she places it down on the table, but he can already guess which patient is the one to recommend such a book.

“What are you listening to?” Dr. Grace asks.

She’s stepping into his direction now, and Nigel realizes the mistake he’s done by engaging in conversation.

“Music,” answers Nigel with affected indifference, throwing himself back on bed as the worn-out mattress squeaks under his weight.

“What kind of music?”

She’s next to the bunk bed now, but her head barely reaches Nigel’s level, which he’s glad of because he doesn’t want to lock eyes with her.

“I didn’t ask you what kind of book you’re reading,” he mumbles. His eyes are pinned on the white ceiling with black mold stains at the corners.

“No, but I did show you anyway. You can share this with me too, can’t you?”

Nigel obliges begrudgingly. He shows her the mp3 player screen, without saying a word.

“Prokofiev,” she reads on the screen, and an expression of genuine surprise paints on her face. “I didn’t know you listen to classical music, Nigel.”

He frowns. This is why he doesn’t tell people about the music he listens to. Because they always act like you have to be some fucking intellectual to enjoy classical music, and according to their standards Nigel doesn’t fall into this category of people. _Bullshit._

“I don’t,” he snaps back. “Just this one. And you don’t know me anyway.”

“Why is this one special?”

Nigel grunts, closing his eyes. “Do house calls always involve asking your patients questions until you drive them bonkers?”

“Occasionally,” she answers, flashing a smile. “You said I don’t know you, and that’s true. It takes time to get to know someone, but it requires communication too.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Dr. Grace’s eyebrows shoot up, and she nods. “That’s right; you don’t have _to_. But this conversation is happening anyway, and you _do_ have the power to make it as tolerable or as insufferable as you wish.”

Nigel shuffles in bed, adjusting his pillow, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I promise I won’t ask you any more questions if you promise to talk without me _having_ to ask you questions.”

He remains silent for a while longer. There must be some sort of loophole here that he’s missing. There’s one in every deal.

“And if I don’t know what to say?”

“Then we sit here in silence until you find something to say. It’s Sunday, and I’m free the whole day. Might as well give the book a second try.”

“Okay,” Nigel agrees, although he’s not convinced yet. One thing is for sure though – he won’t get rid of Dr. Grace unless he humors her, and talks about _whatever she wants to fucking talk about_ for at least a few minutes.

“My favorite composer is Liszt,” she says, making an unsolicited confession. “Though I have to admit I rarely listen to his music. I prefer silence while I’m reading or doing paperwork.”

“Okay,” Nigel repeats, in lieu of thinking out an elaborate answer.

“I can make a playlist with my favorite songs for you. You can make one for me too, if you want. It would be an interesting experiment.”

“I don’t listen to music.”

“You listen to _at least_ one melody. I’d happily put it on repeat ten times if you don’t have anything else to share with me.”

Nigel swallows, and his gaze drifts on the floor, towards the far end of the room where his school backpack has been lying unattended for a few months now. “I’ll think about it,” he promises, in truth only half-considering the idea.

Dr. Grace laughs shortly, not in a mean-spirited way, but with enough of what Nigel perceives as disdain to make him regret even contemplating the possibility of cooperation with her.

“So what else do you want?” he inquires with rancor, once her smirk fades away.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but our deal is such that you’re allowed to ask questions and I’m not.”

“Correct.”

“Very well, then. I want to take you out for a walk.”

The sour expression on Nigel’s face deepens. “I don’t want to go.”

“It snowed last night, and it’s beautiful outside.” Dr. Grace tilts her head towards the window. “Not too cold either,” she adds, watching Nigel intently and waiting for his reaction.

Nigel crosses his arms, and huffs. “I still don’t want to go.”

A long, deep sigh comes from Dr. Grace, the kind that Nigel is used to hearing – sooner or later – from every single adult trying to talk to him.

“Nigel,” she whispers, on a different tone now – mellowed with concern.

“What?”

“You’ve missed the last two appointments. I have to send a report about your progress on Monday, but if you don’t come to your appointments, there’s nothing I can report.”

She lowers her voice until Nigel has to lean in closer to make out what she’s saying.

“Nobody here knows that you haven’t come to my office for the past two weeks. I’m putting my career on the line by lying for you, but I can’t keep doing it forever.”

Her shoulders rise and fall into some sort of shrug that Nigel sees and understands, but he refuses to allow himself to feel sympathetic toward her.

“What do you even care?”

“I do care about you, Nigel. I’ve seen enough of you to care about what happens to you. I know how much you despise this, but my job is to help you, and I’m not helping you if I leave you to your own devices.”

He scrutinizes her face for signs betraying lies and deceit, but he can’t find anything. Not this time. There’ dread in the thought that she could be wholly sincere.

“You’re not my friend.”

“No, I’m not your friend. I’m your therapist. That’s why I’m stopping you from destroying your own future, instead of cheering on you like a friend would do.”

* * *

The snow is untouched ahead of them, and it’s pleasant for Nigel to make it crunch under his feet, leaving deep depressions in the white layer covering the backyard. They stroll side by side without speaking for a few minutes. Nigel’s arms are swaying back and forth in an inconsistent rhythm that causes him to bump into Dr. Grace several times. Each time, he tries an apologetic pat on her arm, and each time his hand drops by his side before he even touches the other. Although having the potential to feel uncomfortable, this walk with Dr. Grace is rather refreshing – not that Nigel would ever admit this out loud.

He feels his eyelashes freezing and sticking together whenever he blinks, and his lips and face muscles going numb. The air he exhales becomes white, translucent clouds once it meets the cold from outside, and Nigel is reminded that he hasn’t had a smoke since– He hasn’t had a smoke _in a long time_.

“Adam’s father told me not to talk to him again,” he says, and then he makes a face. It seems to surprise him more than it surprises Dr. Grace that he’s finally talking about this.

“And you were only coming to my office to see Adam,” she replies, as if they were talking about the weather, and not the gigantic elephant in the room that the situation between Nigel and Adam became.

“No,” he protests quickly. “I was… I don’t know why I was coming. But it’s not _that_.”

“Nigel, it’s alright. Adam is a fascinating, brilliant boy, and being drawn to him is perfectly normal. This early approximation of love you’re feeling is not something you should be ashamed of. You don’t need to hide it. Not from me, at least.”

Warm and undoubtedly red, Nigel’s cheeks feel feverish against the cold winter air. He can’t put together any coherent answer to that, and he curses under his breath – at his lack of defense, at how vulnerable he feels.

“If seeing and talking to Adam was a motivator for you to come to your appointments, then gaining Adam’s father trust and approval should be enough to continue.”

“I don’t give a shit about his trust and approval,” Nigel says, impassive in his own turbulent way.

“What I’m trying to say is that as long as you give a shit about Adam – not his father – your best chance at being able to hang out with him again is visiting the same place he also visits weekly.”

The swear word Dr. Grace uses so nonchalantly elicits a brief smile from Nigel. Maybe she’s not as buttoned-up as he thought.

“The situation is complicated, and there are boundaries to be respected. Not even I can excuse you if you break those boundaries, but I can help widen them.”

“Widen them?”

“Yes. If I can show Mr. Raki who the real Nigel is, not the hooligan he thinks he’s met, then perhaps he will change his mind.”

“Why do I have to prove myself to him?”

“I wish I could give you a simple answer, but nothing is simple about this situation. Mr. Raki is overprotective of Adam, which yields both positive and negative results. He misjudged you, your fault here being that you put yourself in a position to be easily misjudged.”

“Because I didn’t tell anyone Adam and I were leaving?”

“Exactly. There’s nothing inherently wrong about spending time with Adam, just the two of you. But the context – with Adam just having received a diagnostic and his father being late and explicitly asking him to wait at my office – made it so that all blame was laid on you.”

For the first time in those two god-awful weeks spent mostly on his own, Nigel feels a heavy weight lifting off his chest. He’s starting to understand why things have happened the way they have. While he doesn’t feel any less frustrated about the whole situation or any less spiteful about Adam’s father, he does see a momentary flicker of hope that things could change for the better – a thought he couldn't even fathom before meeting Adam.

“Thank you,” he says, and his voice is hushed and timid like he’s holding a secret he doesn’t dare decipher.

* * *

Nigel is lying on his belly, with his arms under the pillow and a blanket thrown over his legs, but sleep eludes him. He keeps thinking about the conversation he had with Dr. Grace earlier the same day and about the promise he made that he’d go to her office tomorrow. Theoretically _today_ , since it’s past midnight, Nigel notices.

He huffs, and buries his face in the pillow. It’s not that he isn’t tired enough to fall asleep, but his mind is too active, too loud, too busy imagining scenarios. One of these scenarios includes him showing up at Dr. Grace’s office at the same time as Adam and his father. Adam is happy to see him, and tells him how much he missed him. He takes his hand, and tells his father to fuck off, _among other things_ , and then they both leave. Adam and Nigel, walking hand in hand, glorious and free and happy. Then there’s another one where Adam ignores him completely. When he confronts him about it, he tells Nigel to leave him alone, that he doesn’t want him around. He doesn’t know what he’d say or how he’d react in that case. His stomach cramps up in a knot just thinking about it, and suddenly he feels like he’s suffocating.

He raises his face from the pillow, and flops on his back, hands and toes stretching beyond the edges of his bed. He sighs, and watches the ceiling with eyes wide-open and pupils dilated in search for every bit of light they can capture. In this static semi-obscurity, the ugly, moldy ceiling looks like a night sky. Here’s a star, there – a planet, and in the far corner, above the door – one of those… _whatever the fuck they’re called_. Bright and colorful in the pictures Adam showed him. Adam would have known.

_Adam._

Shutting his eyes closed, he’s trying to slow down the fast beating of his heart, and swallow the painful lump in his throat, but to no avail. The truth, as much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, is that he’s nervous about going back to therapy. He’s nervous about the possibility of finding Adam there, just as much as he’s afraid of the possibility of not finding him there.

No. He’s not nervous. He’s _fucking terrified_. Pissing-himself kind of terrified, and there’s nothing he can do about it. This night will pass – slowly, but it’ll pass. And then he’ll see.

A loud thud in the window interrupts his train of thought, and he sits up to look around. A second thud follows, and this time Nigel sees that something smashed against the window from outside. He hurries to jump out of bed and open the window before the others wake up.

The wave of cold wind and snow nearly chokes Nigel, but he manages to poke his head outside and squint, trying to see what’s going on. There’s a large silhouette in the front yard – wide more than tall, in a look way that doesn’t even look human – preparing to throw another snowball at his window.

“Who the fuck–”

“Nigel!”

The voice barely reaches him through the wind, but the mysterious person looks up, and when Nigel can see their face–

“Adam?”

He can’t believe this.

“Nigel! Finally!”

“Adam?!”

Surely this must be a dream.

“It’s me, Nigel!”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

He’s definitely dreaming.

“To see me? At this fucking hour?”

Adam answers something Nigel can’t hear anymore because he quickly closes the window when one of his roommates starts shifting in bed. He grabs the first winter coat he finds in the wardrobe, and surely it’s not his own, but he puts it on anyway while running down the stairs, and then stumbles outside in the cold and snow.

He starts walking in Adam’s direction, and the other does the same, so they meet halfway, regarding each other without saying a word. There’s a sense of wonder and longing and relief wrapping both of them, warming them up from the inside despite the freezing temperature and raging blizzard. They’re no longer sure what to tell each other. Nigel realizes that all his plans and scenarios and what ifs were blown away the moment Adam showed up here, the moment he changed the odds in their favor. He’s smiling and Adam is smiling, and he can barely contain the urge to pull him close into a hug.

“How did you know where I live?” Nigel asks.

“I took your address from Dr. Grace’s computer,” Adam answers without missing a beat.

“You what?! Adam. How the hell did you do that?”

There’s curiosity in Nigel’s voice, as well as confusion and sheer astonishment.

Adam shrugs, and then goes on with an explanation that leaves Nigel flabbergasted. “Her computer password was a combination of four digits. I didn’t know if that any four digits or four different digits, so the possible combination ranged from 5,040 to 10,000, which is… less than ideal.”

“Holy…”

“I remembered her date of birth from the certificate in the waiting room, and after a few tries, I found the correct combination.”

“...shit.”

“Then it was easy searching her database. You’re the only Nigel in there. Oh, and… happy birthday.”

“...what?”

Adam stares at his own feet, and does a little gesture with his glove-clad hand. “Your birthday. It was almost two months ago, but I didn’t know that.”

Nigel starts laughing, and then Adam does too, and Nigel shakes his head, and Adam’s cheeks turn a shade pinker. Neither of them seems to fully grasp where they are and what is happening.

“You came here to tell me happy birthday although my birthday was two fucking months ago?”

“Oh, no. I came here because I want you to talk to my father.”

The smile on Nigel’s face disappears promptly, and he can’t seem to find his words anymore. “Adam, that’s… It’s complicated.”

“I know he doesn’t want me to see you anymore, but I want to see you. You must talk to him.”

“You came out here alone in the middle of the night for this?”

“Because… Because I missed you.”

This time Nigel doesn’t resist the urge to hug Adam anymore. He steps closer to the other boy, opens his arms, and then stops for a second, leaving Adam the space to pull back if he wishes to. Adam doesn’t pull back, nor does he come closer to Nigel, but what he does is to smile at the other. A small, crooked smile that tells Nigel that this is okay, that he’s okay with this. Nigel’s arms can barely wrap around the volume of Adam’s winter jacket, and he chuckles as their bodies clash inelegantly. He tells himself that it’s been worth it. That even if this is the last time he sees Adam, it’s been worth going through all this bullshit just for this little reunion of theirs. Just for this one moment of–

“And I’m not alone,” Adam mumbles with his face pressed against Nigel’s chest. 

“Oh?”

Adam struggles a little in the embrace, and Nigel lets go of him, pulling back.

“Aunt Sarah drove me here,” he explains, as if Nigel should already know who Aunt Sarah is and what role she plays in this. 

He doesn’t know, but he can guess. He looks around, and sees a red car waiting with the engine running down the street. It’s all starting to make sense now.

“My father is out of town tonight, so he doesn’t know,” Adam goes on, drawing Nigel’s attention back to himself. “That’s why I want you to come home with me and talk to him tomorrow when he returns.”

Nigel stares at Adam, and blinks a few times as he processes Adam’s request. His jaw slacks when understanding settles in his mind.

“Adam, are you insane?!” he blurts out, and it sounds like he’s more outraged than he actually is. “Your father would kill me.”

“That’s absurd,” Adam replies flatly, despite his brow creasing into a slight and bemused frown. “My father is not a killer.”

“Not literally, but–” Nigel stops mid-sentence, and brings the thoughts running wild through his head to a halt. Just for a moment, he allows himself to shamelessly relish Adam’s eagerness to see him, to talk to him, to be close to him. The mere fact that someone like Adam would go to great lengths to be with someone like Nigel makes him happier than he’s ever been before. That is more than he has any right to ask for, and he’ll be damned if he won’t do everything in his power to assist Adam’s efforts to bring them together and multiply them tenfold.

“You know what?” he says, his mind at ease now and his decision taken. “Forget it. Let’s go.”

* * *

Nigel remains silent through the car ride, only answering Adam’s and his aunt’s occasional questions. He feels full and empty at the same time, like all the blood in his body was replaced with someone else’s. Someone larger and brighter and better than he is, and it’s a change so absolute and profound that he feels himself changing too, guided by the blazing affection he harbors for Adam.

They arrive, and Nigel finds himself taking steps he didn’t dare to hope he’d ever take again, on the narrow hallway, in the kitchen, and later in Adam’s bedroom, where an air mattress with pillows and a blanket lies waiting on the floor, next to Adam’s bed.

It takes little more than an invitation from Sarah for Nigel to agree to share the bedroom with Adam for the night. They don’t plan anything, don’t discuss how to approach the issue tomorrow, don’t even wonder how Mr. Raki will react. Because it no longer matters. What matters is the unspoken agreement that they will stick together through whatever gets in their way.

Then they both go to sleep, and the light is turned off, and the stars on Adam’s walls and ceiling are shining a bright and exuberant green. Nigel feels like he’s wearing steel armor, but his heart is all fragile on the inside. His eyelids are heavy and his blinks few and far between. His body softens and so does his consciousness. The rigid lines and angles of reality blur out and it’s all warm and hazy, and Nigel’s last thought before he drifts off is that he went to sleep in his room and will wake up in Adam’s.

Such is the way of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will continue to be slow I'm afraid. I'm no longer active in the fandom, and finding the energy to work on this is a little rough at the moment. But as long as there are people who enjoy reading this story, I'll keep writing. That I can promise. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! ♥


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